


A Smeltings Tradition

by songquake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songquake/pseuds/songquake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piers has been booted from Smeltings; Dudley knows his parents don't actually care enough to raise him. In the summer after their Fifth Year at Smeltings, how will their symbiosis evolve?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Smeltings Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bgreenwivy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bgreenwivy).



> Written for Round Two of **hp_emofest** on LiveJournal. This was also my first major work in the HP fandom, and originally posted in January 2010.
> 
> Thank you to my betas: tania_sings, reiko_katsura, A and J (who are non-fandom editors).

  
**A Smeltings Tradition**  


 

 **Monday, 9 August, 1995**

It had been four days since Piers had seen Dudley, four days since they had left the play park for home as the clouds rolled in. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen that toe-rag of a cousin of Big D's, either; it was as if they'd both disappeared entirely that evening. It was annoying, not disconcerting, damn it. He wasn't _upset_ so much as irritated that his mate wasn't around to help with his brilliant plan.

Piers sighed in exasperation as he left his house on Pansy Lane.

Plans were good for maintaining their sense of...purpose. Their little gang had built quite the reputation for themselves out in Little Whinging. Since that time in primary school when they had got ice cream money off of ten kids in a single afternoon, threatening them with certain pain if they snitched, the play park and most of the streets were theirs. The kids who hadn't been victimised stood in awe of them, and were easy to talk into doing favours for the gang. Extra sweets, their parents' cigarettes, anything they wanted, they could get off of these brats. Well, except for the hash, which this summer had become a staple in their regimen. _That_ was a revelation; it made the world more agreeable all around. It even made Potter seem like less of a freak, like his madness (and there is madness there, Piers can tell) and his weird behaviours were understandable.

During most of the year, Dudley would be off at Smeltings, the private school Piers had also attended, working on his boxing and growing bigger and scarier. But not smarter; they both knew that Piers was the brains of their operation, despite the fact that he would now be going to the local comprehensive school and was unlikely to attempt anything beyond the required GCSE's. He had started at Smeltings at the same time as Dud, but got caught, as they say, 'fraternising' with a lower form. Not only had the school decided he was a terrible influence, but his parents had decided that they didn't need to spend what little money they had left after drinking for a faggot's education. He wasn't bound for uni, though he might have found a way to put his brains to use there. He would just have to do well enough either being the brains behind their local dealer or proving himself at the local auto shop and eventually running that. The latter was his only plan that could garner him even marginal legitimacy in their fussy village. Banking was out, since he had a well-deserved reputation as a young criminal, and even working the till at Tesco's was likely out of reach. But this was an issue that could wait until after the summer holiday. Right now, Piers was focused on his immediate needs.

Dud's disappearance did nothing to further these more short-term plans. They'd recently hooked up with a small-time pot distributor, and between the skills of the two of them, were getting a pretty sweet deal for their marijuana. Piers' latest idea was for him and Big D to meet their dealer in the park, smoke up with him, pay him for a small bag of the stuff, and have Dudley knock him into the pond. Then Piers would drop his hand into the dealer's rucksack and get a whole bunch more while Dud helped him out of the water and apologised for being a clumsy oaf. Dudley wasn't likely to get excited about that part, but he liked the weed as much as anybody, and really, he had the easy job here. And then they could go to one of their houses and laugh about how easy it was to get one over on the dealer in question.

In the relationship between the two bullies, Piers was the instigator, the bloke who had for years overridden Dudley's conscience while building up his confidence, the one who had kept the group of them slippery enough to evade detection by the cops and their parents. Dud's strength and sheer mass, however, was essential for the ongoing dealings with the stoner who sold to them. It also played a major role in securing Piers' place with the rest of their gang, and he knew it. Piers may have been crafty, but the other boys in their crew didn't respect brains so much as brawn, and he was admittedly on the small side. He was tall, but bony-thin, with olive skin and wiry muscles that most of the gang derided as not nearly big enough underneath it. But when they were kids, Piers and Dudley had worked out what Piers liked to think of as a mutually beneficial relationship: with Dudley protected Piers and Piers helped Dud with his homework. The two of them went together, neither of them special enough on his own to coalesce their band of juvenile delinquents. But as a team... as a team they couldn't be beat. Literally.

Each knew enough about the other that they could be bound in blackmail for the rest of their adolescent lives, and perhaps their adult lives, too. Piers knew that while Dudley milked his parents for all the goodies he could, he couldn't respect them. Dudley knew about Piers' fights with his drunken father, which is the excuse Piers used for why he'd be going back to the local school. Piers knew that Dudley had enormous trouble reading, and only passed his exams when Piers had helped him with their reading assignments; Dudley knew that Piers was a closeted swot. _Among other things,_ Piers thought, grateful that Dudley didn't know the rest. His blood had run a bit cold when Big D had mocked the toe-rag for crying about some boy in his sleep. No, the relationship that the two blokes had was not one based in trust or fondness, but on the camaraderie that grew over the course of a lifetime of hanging out. They were friends out of habit, because their mothers took tea together once a week and they were in the same class at school. Friends because as boys they became the meanest kids in their level, and the sneakiest. With Dudley fat and Piers swottish ( _and queer,_ his mind helpfully added), it was bully or be bullied.

In any case, it was both disturbing and problematic that Dudley and Potter had disappeared at the same time -- in summer, no less. Summer was to be a time of relaxing, of smoking up after a good fight. Now both the fight and the reward were out of reach.

With a nod of his head, Piers approached the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive. He rang the bell.

“Go away!” sounded the voice of Mr. Dursley from behind the door.

“Mr Dursley, it's Piers Polkiss! Is Dudley home?” Piers was treading on thin ice; Vernon Dursley was well-known in Little Whinging for his violent temper and irrational public outbursts. But Piers also knew that ‘keeping up appearances’ was the cardinal rule in the Dursley household. Mr Dursley would not dare to explode on the front steps, nor would his wife allow him to let the neighbours witness a shouting match through the front door, especially with ‘Little Diddybuns' best friend,’ as Petunia tended to call Piers.

As expected, the door opened. “Well, come in, boy! Don't stand there letting out our nice central air!”

“Yes, sir,” Piers said. “Is Dudley here? I was just stopping by because I haven't seen him in a few days, and we had a plan to work out together so he'd still be in shape when it was time to go back to Smeltings.” _Solid gold,_ Piers thought. _There's nothing that makes these jokes for parents more proud than the thought of their son as a boxing star, and ‘having tea’ or ‘working out’ with the son of the Garden Club's social chair._

“Oh, Piers! It's good of you to come by!” Mrs Dursley exclaimed. “I'm so sorry for any worry – Duddykins caught quite a chill out in that storm a few days ago and has been in bed ever since.. I've been making sure that he's resting and eating well so he'll be his old self in no time. But it is still terribly rude for Dudley not to have called you. On behalf of my son, I apologise.” By the end of her speech, Mrs Dursley seemed to have calmed down a bit.

 _That woman is always a little too high strung,_ Piers noted. _It's a wonder anyone can tolerate an entire conversation with her. I can see why Dudley wants to get out so much._ “May I go up and visit him?”

* * *

Dudley had heard the overly-loud _ding-dong_ of his parents' newly installed electric doorbell (“Bigger is always better, right, Dudders?” his father had boomed), and his father's nasty retort. Nobody unexpectedly rang their doorbell except salesmen, and his father had absolutely no patience for them. He curled even further under the blankets, trying to let their warmth comfort him after such a shocking, eye-opening, and _confusing_ few days. His blankets were a safe place, not like that dark alley. They were soft and solid, and dry and _warm_. He wished that his parents would turn down the air conditioning; the sense that he'd never be warm or happy again hadn't quite left.

When he and Potter were in that narrow passage together, he thought he was going to _die_. It didn't help that when his cousin had mentioned that magic had made him feel that way, his father had exploded and his mother had gone white as an institutional sheet (like the ones at Smeltings, always bleached to within an inch of their life). His dad thought he'd needed medical attention, but his mum had insisted that the only way to help him was to take him to one of _their_ hospitals, and everyone agreed that was not an acceptable option. Well, his parents agreed, at least. So staying in the house it was. Potter had been locked in Dudley's second bedroom for days (which had made Dudley feel safer – at least he couldn't point that wand at him if he was locked up), but had disappeared the night before while his parents were out and Dud had been in his bed with the headphones on. _Good riddance_ , Dudley thought, though there was something about Potter's disappearance that made him nervous, too. In any case, Dudley wanted nothing to do with going outside – who knew when it would get cold again or the snakes might attack? He knew that the giant boa constrictor from the zoo had found its way to the alley just because it didn't like him... or maybe his cousin had called it again... it hissed in his ear....he'd never be safe, or happy, or warm if it found him...

Yes. Bed was the warm, dry place where he could just reach into the Milk Tray box his mum had bought him and grab a sweetie any time he felt he needed it. Chocolate was almost as comforting as his blanket, and Mum would bin the wrappers for him tomorrow.

Pounding on the stairs startled Dudley out of his reverie. Quickly, he sat up, clutching his blanket to him. When there was a second pounding on his door, he relaxed. Dudley recognised the pattern of knocks that Piers always used.

“C'min, Piers,” Dudley called, consciously loosening his hold on the covers. “All right, mate?”

“Shite, Dud,” Piers said as he closed the door behind him and ignored the greeting. “Your mum said you'd been ill, but I've never seen you like this before.” To someone who didn't know of Dudley's great strength and bravery, it would look as if the large boy were _cowering_. “And what's with the chocolate? I thought you'd given that stuff up except for when we smoked.” Nothing was off-limits when Dud got the munchies, no matter what rules his boxing coach had put in place.

“Er, yeah. Not well at all. Pretty sick after that storm. Fever, you know. And chills. And in the middle of all that, Potty Potter had to go ranting with his crazy-talk again... Mum's been hovering over me so much that I'm not sure I'll ever be allowed outside unchaperoned again.”

“A bit extreme, eh?”

Dudley rolled his eyes. “You know how she gets, calling me all those ridiculous names and insisting that I stay in bed like her good ickle Duddlywump and eat lots of chicken soup so I can grow big and strong. And Dad comes up and shouts about getting out of bed and showing the germs who's boss, and then they fight, Dad goes out drinking with your dad, and Mum buys me another sack of chocolates to make me feel better.” He didn't mention how the chocolate seemed to be the only thing that could keep the chill and panic away.

“Where is Potty anyway? Is he sicking up in your second bedroom as well?”

“I haven't been sicking up! Tell the truth, I don't feel that bad, but Mum'll keep buying me whatever I want as long as I look pathetic enough. And to tell another truth, Potty's done a runner. Again.”

Piers rolled his eyes. Potty was predictable. “Where does he go, anyway? Isn't this the fourth summer in a row he's disappeared? Doesn't he know that he's supposed to stick around for our entertainment?”

“Yeah, well, a letter came threatening to kick him out of his school. Can you believe that? Getting booted from school? And from St Brutus' of all places?” Dudley was already starting to feel normal: less frightened, more masculine and capable. Mostly of beating up anyone or any... _thing_ that came across his path.

Piers, on the other hand, had started to look a bit discomfited, as if he were hiding something. Dudley saw him school his face into a smirk when Piers noticed him watching. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Who'd think one _could_ get kicked out of a school for the incurably criminal? What'd he do?”

Dudley got quiet. How to handle this? Because he knew that Potter had gotten the threat for using that weird magic – the magic that always got Mum and Dad so upset – to protect him. But Piers couldn't know about that. Not at all.

“Er...dunno, mate. Must be pretty bad. You'd think that there would just be disciplines for the incurably criminal kids who broke their schools rules – beatings and whatnot.” Though Dudley didn't want to think of what sort of punishments would await a wizard who broke the rules – surely something horrid. He still remembered with a twinge in his bottom that tail that the giant smelly man had given him when he'd first taken Harry away. If that was a punishment for wanting some cake, he'd hate to think of what would happen to a kid who was caught out after hours, or missed his assignments. Lost in thought, he realised that the discipline at Smeltings was really quite the best one could get. It changed his direction when he got caught – he'd certainly not do the things he'd been caned for again in plain sight.

Interrupting Dudley's brooding, Piers added, “Their teachers and matrons, or whoever, they must need a holiday from all that criminality.”

“Guess.”

“You know, it always surprised me that it was Potter who got sent to St Brutus'. You know, rather than us. He was always just a little twat who didn't even fight back when we went Harry Hunting. Didn't figure him to be a bad boy at all.”

“Well, you know it didn't come from our primary school, even though I don't think he was ever caught up in his lessons. They thought he was slow and maybe truant, but not a bad seed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was my dad, mostly. Got sick of Potter talking back, pilfering stuff, damaging the house, and sneaking around. I guess he probably got the school to say the bloke was antisocial, too, since he never had any friends.”

“Shite, Dud.” Piers paused thoughtfully. “I'd always been a little jealous, you know. Not that I really wanted to go to St Brutus', but it felt like he was showing us up, getting sent there when _we_ were the ones who beat everyone up.”

“Not funny, Piers.” Somehow, Dudley was tired of this conversation.

* * *

 **Thursday, 12 August, 1995**

Another three days, the sun was shining with irritating cheer, and Dudley at long last rang Piers. “Mum's finally convinced I can leave the house without dying. Anything going on?”

Ten minutes later, he was outside the Polkiss house at Number Eleven, Pansy Lane. He still thought it funny that Piers the Pansy (and Piers thought he didn't know) lived on a street named for him. Not to mention that the outside of the Polkiss house was even prissier than his mum's, with every blade of grass and petal of the garden carefully groomed. But Dudley couldn't risk losing the brains of his operation, so he had quit pursuing _that_ line of mockery by the time they were ten.

“Dud, you're porking up again. You'd better get back to working out, or Coach Brewster is gonna have your arse.” _Also, you're hotter and manlier when you've got more muscle than fat,_ Piers mused, but he'd never say that – not unless he wanted a pounding of the fisticuffs variety. No way he was gonna let Dudley think he was perving on him, even if sometimes he did. Especially when Big D let Piers order him around...there was something peculiarly arousing about having control over someone bigger than him. Which was what Piers planned to do today.

“And you've still got bony legs and beady eyes. We'll just have to cope,” Dudley retorted.

 _He's getting better at the comeback,_ Piers thought. It was strangely attractive. Out loud, he announced: “Today we're gonna score some pot off of Carmichael. And more than we have money to pay for,” he added, when it looked like Dudley was going to object. “I already have about fifteen quid. That should buy a nice bit for us.”

“And the rest? The 'more than we can pay for'?”

“That, my friend, is where teamwork comes in.” Piers explained his dump-the-dealer-in-the-pond plan. Dudley looked less than impressed.

“You mean I get to be the klutz. Again,” he said flatly.

“Of course! You know I'm not strong enough to knock him over. Not big enough to make it look like an accident, either.”

“Yeah, and once he figures out what we've done, where'll we get our weed from?”

 _Since when does Dudley...?_ This could be a mess, both in the short term (since unquestioning loyalty and willingness was necessary for this particular scheme) and in the longer term (since Piers suspected Dudley had only ever kept him around for his brains and strategic way of looking at the world).

Piers deflated a little. “I hadn't thought that far,” he conceded. “When did you start planning ahead?”

“That's the shite that keeps me from decking my parents. I don't want the supply to run dry. 'Sides, it's only a few more weeks, and then we're back at Smeltings and the joys of the student trade. Last thing we need is for us to get blacklisted from the pot market in Little Whinging next summer.”

“Right,” Piers nodded. “Then let's just go meet Car and pay what we've got for what we can get.”

“I can still knock him into the pond, right?”

“Yeah, just make sure he doesn't have the weed in his clothes. Would be a shame to waste it. Listen, we're almost late to meet him already. Let's take that short-cut we found the other week.”

Dudley took a deep breath. “Got it.” Piers meant the alley; Dudley hoped that whatever had attacked him and his cousin there was well and truly gone.

The two kept a brisk pace going down Pansy Lane, Wisteria Walk, and to the small alley Dudley had last seen when the cold and despair had soaked him. He stopped in his tracks. A man would be insane to risk that again.

“Er, I know we're late, but Car will wait for us. Let's walk around,” the normally macho boy said.

Piers' response was incredulous. “Why the bloody fuck would we do that?”

Dudley's pallor was washed away in his embarrassment. What could he say that would both get him out of walking the alley and manage to save him face?

There was nothing for it. “Er, it's rather humiliating. Do you need to know?”

“Well, I'd think that a little bit of humiliation is the price you'll have to pay for being a big girl's blouse and holding us up,” Piers sneered.

Dud took a slow breath, calming himself while the lie took shape in his brain. “It's just that I wasn't really _sick_ from the rain, is all. I, er, slipped in the alley and knocked my head. Potter practically had to carry me home. And it looks like the kind of alleyway that's never completely dry.”

“You serious, mate?” When Dudley grimaced and nodded, Piers continued. “I have no bloody clue how you can be so light on your feet in the ring and such a klutz out of it. It's like your fat arse needs the floor to be padded or something.” Piers watched his friend grow even redder about the face. If only he could make that face blush for other reasons.... _No, keep it under control, Polkiss. You're one up on him now; don't waste it._

“Well, you've heard it. I know I'm a complete berk for not wanting to do it, but could you just humour me?”

The mixed emotions of humiliation and anxiety on Dudley's face were strangely endearing. “Whatever,” said Piers, making a big show of rolling his eyes.

* * *

Even as he took his first hit from the bowl, Dudley felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and mind. It was amazing what just the expectation of relief could do.

The two boys were camped out in Piers' attic bedroom as usual. Piers had moved up there a couple of summers ago; with him spending most of the year at school, his parents wanted to turn his bedroom into a study for his father. What his father had to ‘study’ was beyond the ken of both young men (they suspected pornography and whiskey), but Piers had decided to take full advantage of the extra privacy his own floor afforded him.

Piers had a stereo and TV/VCR, of course, and many tapes and CD's to entertain himself and any friends. His most recent acquisition had been a Playstation, and he and his friends (usually Dudley, but sometimes Malcolm or Gordon) could spend many stoned hours playing Mega Mutilation or Star Fighter, or even Tetris when they had smoked themselves silly enough. An afternoon of smoking meant an afternoon of lazing about, with snacks galore and mindless entertainment.

Plus, of course, the meandering discussions, from why someone like Kurt Cobain would kill himself to how many licks it would take to reach the Tootsie Roll Centre of a Tootsie Pop. And sometimes, when it was just Dudley and Piers, they'd get really stoned, pilfer some whiskey or gin, and forget to keep their game faces on with one another.

This afternoon, the attic was stifling and their only relief was the fan blowing their smoke out the small window by Piers' bed. Having decided it was too hot for hunting children or even playing video games, the teens were lying sideways on the bed, their legs dangling off. It was the type of afternoon most conducive to dangerous conversation.

“Ta,” said Piers as he took the bowl back. He drew a long toke and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. “Some good stuff, that. All right, Duds?”

Dudley looked over at Piers, slowly pulling himself from his train of thought. “All right,” he responded. Even though he wasn't, quite. “Piers, you can't convince your dad that it's worth it to drink less so that you can come back to Smeltings? Only, I have no idea how I'll survive lessons without you there to help me.”

“Hey, no getting soft on me, mate. You'll find some other swot to help you in exchange for protection, I'm sure.”

“I don't fancy having to chat someone up about it,” Dudley muttered. “Besides, you're clever, can't you find a scholarship of some sort?”

Piers was caught, but he found he didn't much care. Dudley was right; without help, he'd likely get sent home for not meeting Smeltings' academic standards. “Truth is, it's not the money, Dudders.”

“Then why –”

“I got caught fagging a firstie at the end of term. The headmaster thought I had taken the tradition a bit too literally.”

“Blimey, mate. What did you do?”

“Pass the bowl again, will you?” Piers took another deep draw, gathering his courage to tell the truth. “Well, not that it matters much, but you know that brat Mulrooney?”

“Er, I think so,” Dudley said, confused.

“Well, he cheeked me, so I knocked his books out of his hands.”

“That doesn't sound like much – not a huge offence that would get you anything more than _maybe_ a detention.”

“Well, it's what happened after...” Piers trailed off. “I took the opportunity to relieve him of his maths assignment. And the little sod started whinging, and looked fit to get a strop on. So I offered him a deal.”

“Oh, Piers, don't tell me you were caught... what's it called when you make somebody bribe you?”

“Extorting.”

“Yeah. You were caught _extorting_ a firstie?”

“Well, not that, at least not yet. I was caught getting sucked off by a firstie. That was the deal we made.” Piers kept looking at the ceiling, not wanting Dudley to see his face yet. He knew he was blushing at the memory, not just from the part where they got caught (which _was_ pretty embarrassing; who knew that he'd end up being so loud when he came?), or even the slick, luxurious feel of those lips wrapped around his cock, the tongue almost involuntarily moving up and down the vein on the underside. He was blushing, getting turned on, because of the _power_ he'd felt at that moment – that he could get Mulrooney to do whatever he wanted, that he could grab the boy's hair and move his head back and forth so that it felt even _better_. And now there was no need for his best mate to see _that_.

“Shite.” Dudley whispered. “Had you gotten away with that kind of stuff before?”

“What, you're not revolted?” Piers said. “And no, this was the first time I'd tried that.”

“Revolted that you're a faggot after all, or that you _extorted_ a boy for a blowjob?” Dudley said, eyes narrowing as he turned his head toward his friend.

“The first.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Piers. Just because I stopped taking the mickey about it doesn't mean I didn't _know_. You may be clever, but even you can't seem to stop looking at the people you find attractive. Who happen to be blokes.” _And sometimes even me._

“And the other?”

“Is pretty low, even for you.” Somehow, the pleasant haze had faded a bit. Dudley took another hit, and passed the bowl.

Piers coughed, then tried to chuckle. “I never took you as the type to be more put off by the bullying than the poofterism, mate.”

“And I never took you to be _that_ kind of prat.” Dudley stood, swaying a little from the head-rush.

“Dud? Where you going, mate?”

“Home. Don't need this to ruin a perfectly good high.” Dudley let the bedroom door bang shut behind him, and called his goodbye to Mrs Polkiss as he saw himself out.

* * *

He really should have taken another hit before leaving. And played another round of Mega Mutilation, since that, at least, would have filled his mind temporarily with something _else_.

Dudley was having trouble holding onto his mellow after Piers' revelation. No longer irritatingly cheerful, the sun now beat down upon him like a searchlight.

 _Fuck,_ he thought.

In a manner of speaking, their conversation had crystallised for Dudley everything he disliked about his world, his friends, and himself. _We're a bunch of wankers. No, worse. We're the biggest arseholes in Little Whinging, and apparently the biggest ones at Smeltings, too._

He'd known, of course, but he hadn't _realised_. He knew that younger kids didn't do stuff like bring him sweets and carry his homework, that blokes his age didn't do his homework for him because they _liked_ him. They did it because they were _terrified_. Because even if he weren't the Junior Heavyweight Boxing Champion, he also had backup in the form of other blokes like Piers, Malcolm and Gordon. Each was ruthless. Together, they were almost a terrorist organisation

And he was pretty sure that the guys in his gang... he was pretty sure that they didn't even like _each other_. They'd banded together as lads for strength, each knowing his own weaknesses could get his arse kicked by older kids in primary school. And they worked together like friends, he thought. But it wasn't like they had bloody heart-to-hearts. More like bloody hands-to-noses, if they disagreed.

They were _uncivilised_. Piers' story about the firstie and the blow job was just a different sort of bullying.

Potter had said that what had happened to him in the alley was that the demented cold wind was trying to suck out his soul. Well, he might have been safe, then, even if Potter hadn't intervened. Living this life without a soul would probably be even _easier_.

And with that thought, Dudley Dursley came to a realisation.

He wanted to reform himself. He did not want to be incurably criminal, knowing that he belonged at St Brutus' rather than Smeltings. And he would need help to change.

* * *

“I don't want to be an arsehole any more.”

“Well, bully for you,” retorted Piers. “Are you going to tell me why you bolted out of here, and why the fuck you came back?”

Dudley saw how the carpet had been singed where they had dropped ashes over the months. He looked out the window at the sun, lower in the sky and somewhat softer, encouraging. He stared at Piers' dresser, and saw the first aid supplies they had used to patch each other up this summer, taping ribs or hands, disinfecting and covering small cuts, those Steri-Strips and that hippie stuff that helped you heal that Gordon had nicked from his mum, who was a nurse. Piers had the most privacy, so his room had been their urgent care centre. Realising that he was stalling, Dudley looked up, directly at his comrade-in-arms.

“I came back because I need your help. Even though the reason I ran is 'cause I figured out what kind of an arsehole you were.”

“What, you find it sickening that I'm queer?”

“Wha- No!” Dudley warmed, trying not to think of how his denims had tightened while Piers was describing the situation. “I find it sickening that you're a fucking _child molester_.”

Piers was silent at that. Examined his toenails. That one on the end looked to be turning yellow; maybe kind of cool, but mostly gross. He hoped it would fall off soon. He preferred to think about that than about what Dudley had just accused him of being.

Also the fact that Dud seemed thoroughly unsurprised that he liked boys.

“Well, what sort of 'help' do you want?” His voice started to grow louder. “And since you just accused me of being the sickest kind of criminal, why the bloody fuck – no pun intended, of course – but why the bloody fuck should I even _consider_ doing you a fucking favour?” Piers was nearly spitting by the time he finished. He was even more incensed since Dudley appeared unperturbed by the outburst.

“Let's see,” Dudley paused, tapping his chin. “Well, I could tell you that you'll help me because I could go out and spread the word that not only are you a poof, but that you're a poof who has a thing for the wee ones. But I'd like to think that you'll help me just because you would think it fun.”

Fun? That caught Piers' attention. “Details. Mind, I'm not agreeing to _anything_.”

“Right. Okay,” Dudley took a deep breath, finding it hard to believe that he was going to say this. “I don't want to be an arsehole any more, but I can't just _stop_.”

“Why not?”

“Please. You've known me how long? Have I ever shown any sort of...,” Dudley paused, searching for the right word, “restraint in anything?”

“You're good at restraining others,” Piers pointed out.

Dudley drew a tight breath and continued. “That's not the point, you berk. The point is that I get pissed off and I don't even think of controlling myself. I just hit first, and forget about it later.”

“Okay, so what is it you want?”

“I need someone to keep me in line. Make me follow rules. Punish me if I don't. Discipline. I need it, and I think you wouldn't mind being in charge of it.”

“I'm not your fucking parent, Dud.”

|Dudley snorted derisively. “You think I'd ask my parents to help me reform? Have you _met_ my parents? Mum would be all, ' _Duddlebuns, you're perfect! Would you like some pudding?_ ' and my father would likely do that thing he likes to think of as lecturing where he drones on and on but is loud about it. He would be telling me that the only way people will respect me is if they’re afraid of me, and why was he paying for boxing gloves if I wasn't going to employ my training to make my point when it really counts.” He took a breath. “They're terrible people, and terrible parents. How do you think I ended up this way? You couldn't have been taking _all_ the credit.”

Piers nodded. That was a point. “So you want me to make up a list of rules for you to follow to become a fucking perfect gentleman, and punish you when you fail to follow them.”

“In a nutshell.”

“And you think I'll enjoy it because...”

“Because I know that you like to be in charge, and like it even more when you get to be in charge and humiliate someone at the same time.”

“Point. Why do you think this'll work?”

“Because when Headmaster Crowe punished me, I thought twice before making the same infraction. He'd lecture, yes, but he was convinced that the only thing that could 'reform' my behaviour and remind me of my place was a good paddling or caning. I certainly learnt not to break rules and get _caught_.”

“And who will report you to me?”

“Er... Well, I was thinking that since we end up hanging together a lot, you'd probably be witness to most of my infractions. Any others... I'd report?” He started as Piers snorted.

“Oh, yes. Self-tattling sounds like _such_ a good idea. Like you'd be telling me the truth.”

“I'm the one who's trying to learn to change. Maybe honesty is something that should be a rule. You've seen me lie enough. You've caught me at it before.” This was true; as schoolboys, Piers had an uncanny way of knowing when Dudley was hiding some of the loot from their bullying.

“I need to think about it. My ego is still smarting from that terribly unfair accusation you levelled upon me before.”

“Unfair, my arse.”

“If we do this, cheeking me will _definitely_ get you a demerit.”

 

* * *

 **Friday, 13 August, 1995**

“You will not hold me accountable to these rules, Dudley.

"You will not cheek me or anyone who outranks you, including the other members of our gang, your parents, any other adults, and especially teachers.

"You will address me as 'Sir' or 'Teacher' when alone with me, as I am your master teacher. Similarly, all adults will be referred to as 'Sir' or “Ma'am,' unless there is a specific title such as 'Reverend' or 'Professor' that is more appropriate.

"You may correct youngsters for cheeking by verbally informing them about the rules of etiquette – you'll be reading _An Etiquette Manual for Men,_ by the way – but you may _not_ touch them, or raise your voice.

"You will use words like please, thank you, you are welcome, and proper salutations. You will close your mouth while chewing, and use proper table manners.

"You will not lie, to me or anyone else.

"You will offer to help your parents with work in the house, and offer assistance to anyone you notice may need it.

"You will improve your speech, removing vulgarity. You will begin by refraining from using foul language when addressing or describing other people, and eventually remove it from your vocabulary altogether.

"You will complete your assignments on time, whether for me, your parents, or your tutors and professors. If you can't do it by yourself, you will ask for help.

 

"You will not cheat in school, in games, or in any other way.

"You will treat women with courtesy. You will treat children and animals with kindness.

"If you find your temper rising, you will excuse yourself and only return when your feelings are under control. You will make apologies for having to leave. You will not taunt anyone, and you will treat everyone with respect, including that derelict cousin of yours.

"When you're wrong, you will make no excuses, but apologise and accept the repercussions from those you have wronged as well as from me. You may ask questions about what the correct response should have been if you cannot figure it out yourself.

“I will note any infractions I witness, but I shall require you to carry three objects at all times: a notepad and Biro so that you can list all your infractions including date, time, and location, and your Smeltings stick, both as a reminder of the honourable institution which you purport to represent, and to remind you of what may come should you fall short of meeting the expectations set forth. Do you understand and agree, Dudley?”

Dudley gulped. He had not expected Piers to take it so seriously, nor to have enumerated so many rules along with _reading_ assignments. But he nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

Piers handed Dudley a written copy of the rules. “Good man. This begins now. We shall meet in three days to evaluate your progress.”

* * *

 **Monday, 16 August, 1995**

The sun was shining again as Dudley approached the Polkiss residence and climbed the front steps. "I asked Piers to do this," he muttered to himself. _I asked him because he's the only one vicious enough to whip me into shape. This is correction that I need._ He took a moment to wipe his hands -- individually, as he had to use one to hold his Smeltings Stick -- on the front of his knee-high khakis. His notebook and Biro sat in his left back pocket as he gave himself one last once-over to make sure his shirt was buttoned and tucked in, that his laces were properly tied, and his back straight.

There was nothing for it: he could not procrastinate any longer, not if he didn't want to be late. Dudley rang the doorbell. Mrs Polkiss answered the door.

"Hullo, Mrs. Polkiss. How are you, today?"

"Very well, Dudley. And how are you?"

"I'm also well, ma'am."

"My, Dudley. You certainly are polite today."

"I'm just trying to practice good manners, ma'am. I'm trying to become a respectable member of society."

"And a wonderful goal that is. Would that all the young men might take their example from you."

"Er, yes, Ma'am," Dudley conceded, blushing a bit. "I'm here to visit Piers; I believe he's expecting me. Is he available?" Dudley asked, surprised that he wanted to escape this bizarre universe of stilted manners for the painful but direct communication he'd have with his Teacher.

"Of course he is, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said. "He's right up--"

"Here, Mum," Piers' voice came from the landing between the first and second floors. "You may come on up, Dudley."

"Thank you, Mrs. Polkiss," Dudley remembered to say as he turned to climb the stairs.

"You're very welcome, Dudley," Mrs. Polkiss said, beaming.

* * *

"Stand in the centre of the carpet, and hand me your notebook and Smeltings Stick," Piers said calmly as Dudley followed him into his bedroom. Taking the items, Piers added, "Hands behind your back, and remain quiet while I look over your infractions."

He smirked as Dudley complied, then turned around and sat at his desk, facing away from Dudley as he started paging through the notebook.

 _Day 1: 13 August -- Sometimes forgot to close my mouth while chewing. Correkted when I rememberd, but I forgot 4 times. Forgot to ask Mum weather she needed help before or after dinner. Then I said shit when I realised my mistake. Did not say thank you when Mum served the meal._

 _Day 2: 14 August -- Let Mum both make and clean up after breakfast, and winjed (as ~~yushy~~ always) about my quarter grapefruit. Damn diet, again. I just swore in my log, that's got to be another dimerit. Did not call Mum and Dad "sir" or "ma'am," also Mrs. Figg. Also did not offer to help Mrs. Figg across the street, dispite her full arms. That woman realy just needs to get a trolley for her grosseries. Told Mum I was taking tea at Malcolm's, when I was really at the play park with the gang. And aparrently taking the mickey out of a friend counts as "cheeking," because when I told Malcolm that his new haircut made him look like a cancer patient, Piers sent me a really mean look. Opened my mouth while eating 8 times today..._

The next day's entries were much the same, as was that morning's, though Dudley had apparently gotten better at asking his mother whether she would like help cleaning up after meals. But the lying about teatime, the horrendous table manners, and occasional swear words popped up daily. Not to mention Dudley's dreadful spelling, but Piers should have expected that.

"This is a good start," Piers said, "but not good enough. It seems that merely recording your infractions is not preventing you from repeating them. What do we have.... here: twenty instances of chewing with your mouth open, one instance of unacceptable grooming, six instances of not offering to help your mother, one instance of failing to help an elderly neighbour, forgetting your spoken manners eight times, cheeking a superior, three instances of lying, and ten instances of swearing, but as they were not swears directed at people, you're off the hook for them. And then there was your greeting of my mother."

"Sir? I thought I was very polite with your mother," Dudley protested.

"You think that ' _hullo_ ' is a formal enough greeting for one of your elders?"

"No, sir," Dudley said, his head cast down.

Piers looked at his student. "And, well, there were many rules. So I am going to ask you some questions, just to make sure that we have a full account."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you taunted any children?"

"No, sir."

"Have you finished reading _An Etiquette Manual for Men_?"

Dudley looked confused. "No, sir."

"And why is that?"

"I haven't got a copy yet, sir."

"Unacceptable. You will acquire a copy of the Manual as soon as possible, and have it read within the next week. It's short; you can work on it every day or come to me for help." Piers paused a bit before his next question. "Did you place a serviette on your lap for every meal?"

"No, sir," said Dudley. This time he was cringing. _Good,_ thought Piers. _Let him fear the trouble he's got himself into here._ "My mother has decided that except for fancy meals, we should use paper serviettes, sir."

"A paper serviette can lie on your lap as well as a linen one. A gentleman will always eat properly, even if the facilities do not seem to require it." Piers had been practising his snooty voice, and felt he was using it to excellent effect.

"Yes, sir," Dudley said softly.

"So, let's see. That's forty-five demerits for the first three days. Not good for you, Dudley."

"No, sir," Dudley said glumly. He wondered what punishment was in store.

"Now, normally, each demerit would earn you a corresponding strike. But since this is your first correction session since the term ended, I don't expect that you are able to manage that. Therefore, I will be giving you only a third of the punishment that you deserve. How's that sound?"

"Er...thank you, sir?"

"You're damn right you better thank me. As time goes on, you _will_ feel the pain for each time you overlook the rules." Piers took the Smeltings Stick off his desk and showed it to Dudley. "This is to be the instrument of your correction. The fact that it is what I will use to, well, 'drive home the point' is the reason you carry it at all times. It is both to remind you of your responsibilities as you try to become respectable, and to be available to me should I see you in need of immediate correction at any time."

Dudley winced, and drew in a steadying breath. "Yes, sir. I carry it with me as a reminder and as the instrument of my education."

"Yes. Another reminder is to apologise to anyone whom you disrespect as soon as you can. So you will be making your apologies to my mother as you leave. Got it?"

"Yes, I understand, sir."

"Good man. Now it is time for that correction to begin. Take down your trousers and pants, and get down on all fours." Piers looked forward to watching the stick hit Dudley's huge arse, turning the skin white before fading into red, red lines.

* * *

Dudley felt his face turning red. _He wants to hit my naked arse,_ he thought. _I suppose I ought to have expected that._ He unbuckled his belt, almost wishing he were going to be hit with it instead. The Smeltings Stick just looked so...hard, and mean. Its knobs would mean that his arse would be marked in that bumpy pattern. And that the pain, the _bruises_ would be uneven. Still, he pulled down his trousers and pants; he might as well get it over with.

Once Dudley was on his hands and knees, he heard Piers murmur "Good," and then a _whoosh_ as the Smeltings Stick cut through the air--

" _Ahhhh!_ " Dudley cried out.

Piers paused. "You can't take your stripes like a man yet, can you." He sighed as he moved to the stereo and turned up the volume on his Pearl Jam CD. "We can't have my mum hearing you, can we?"

Dudley stilled. "No, sir. And I'll try to do better, sir."

"You better. Now that was one strike. I want you to count the rest. Out loud." He swung the Smeltings Stick again.

" _Two!_ " Dudley said loudly. Clearly, the Stick brought out something loud in him. Piers had been smart to put on the stereo. The Stick hit his arse again. "Three!" He couldn't believe he had _asked_ for this.

The punishment continued, the Stick hitting his arse at irregular intervals, but never so quickly as to let them blend into one another. Dudley felt the stripes emerging as parallel lines on his bottom. As he cried "Six!" he realised that there was something satisfying about getting the punishment he deserved. This is what he had been hoping for: correction for the times he had been stupid, careless, or mean. This is what he deserved for all the years he'd been an arsehole and the bogeyman for so many kids.

" _Seven!_ " he called, and moaned as he felt his cock twitch. His face, already red and sweating, felt like it was heating up even more.

Piers paused, and Dudley froze, worried that his Teacher had noticed his new physical response. But it was just a pause for consideration, it seemed, as Piers then let the stick fall along the outside of each thigh ("Eight! Nine!"). He stepped back.

"Sir?" Dudley asked.

"The ladder on your arse is quite the sight, Dudley," Piers remarked, admiring his own work. Dudley continued to pant. "Now go on and catch your breath. You have six stripes to go."

As soon as Dudley had calmed himself, he heard the _whoosh_ of the Stick again, and another stripe landed on the outside of his left thigh. "Ten!"

"Eleven," he whimpered as the next strike hit, and closed his eyes as his cock renewed its interest. He was starting to feel frustrated; it was embarrassing enough to be beaten for his schoolboy transgressions, but to be turned on by the punishment _and_ unable to relieve the sexual tension in his groin was beyond embarrassing. It was humiliating.

"Twelve," Dudley moaned, hearing Piers hum behind him. Dudley hoped that his Teacher was pleased by his submission, his willingness to learn.

"Thirteen!" he cried out as his hips started to pump back and forth involuntarily. "Please, sir!"

"Please, what?" Piers murmured from behind him.

"Please... please!" Dudley felt the words escape his lips, and was just grateful that he hadn't said something about his stiffie.

He heard Piers chuckle darkly. "Harder, eh?" he said, right before putting all his strength into the last two smacks.

"Fourteen! Ahhh -- _Fifteen!_ " Dudley could barely hold himself up, breathing heavily, fighting to keep his tears of humiliation and pain back. He felt hands, one cool, one warm, feeling -- was that _caressing_? -- the pattern of the bumpy stripes, the _ladder_ , on his bum. This made his cock fill even more, and looking to where it curled under his shirt, he could see a spot of moisture on the fabric.

"That was fifteen. Next time, expect more unless your behaviour has improved quite a bit,," Piers commented.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," whimpered Dudley.

"Your arse looks grand, by the way. I did a good job creating that ladder. Even if the stripes aren't really straight -- the Smeltings Stick leaves the ladder a bit bumpy, you see."

"I know, sir," Dudley replied after drawing a deep, centring breath.

"I bet you'd love to see it, or at least feel it, wouldn't you, Dud?"

" _Yes_ , sir," Dudley breathed.

"That's not something you deserve, though. Pull up your trousers, and do _not_ pull them down to see the effect of your punishment until you are getting ready for bed."

Damn. There went the idea of jerking off as soon as he got home.

"I'll see you here at the same time next week," were the last words Piers said to him as he placed the Smeltings Stick and notebook on the floor beside Dudley's belt.

* * *

Piers turned from Dudley, sat at his desk, and pretended to ignore his "student" as the boy re-dressed himself and gathered his notebook and Smeltings Stick. Piers just waved him out the door; he needed this exit to be quick.

He turned down the stereo as he listened to Dudley descend the stairs and stammer an apology to his mum. _Good, he didn't forget._ Not that Piers would have minded Dudley starting to earn his next demerits right away. This beating had been oddly satisfying, and he had definitely noticed Dudley's arousal. It would have been obvious from his moans even if he weren't sporting a nice little erection.

 _I need to look at some porn that shows beatings,_ he thought, considering where he wanted to take this. _And also maybe look at some books...._

As soon as he was sure Dudley was gone and that his mother had gone off elsewhere in the house, Piers pulled down his own trousers and pants. He took his cock in his left hand and used his right to smear pre-come around the head as he started to masturbate.

* * *

 

 **Monday, August 23, 1995**

A whole week. A whole _week_ Dudley had had to wait for his next ‘correction session,’ and here he was, already on tenterhooks as he walked down Magnolia Crescent to Pansy Lane. He knew he was in for it today, and that he deserved it, too. _I reckon that it's harder to have to wait for my stripes than it would be to receive them right away._

He'd had this week both to think about his reactions to his first discipline session with Piers and to think about how he would be punished for any further infractions. He was still trying to understand why submission -- he couldn't call it anything else -- to his Teacher and his punishments felt so good. Was it the purging of his sins that turned him on? His soul so ruined that any cleansing ritual would lead to the dirtiness of unnatural arousal?

Worse still, he was finding himself distracted whenever Piers was near. He kept thinking about how Piers knew he was trying not to be an arsehole, and how Piers also knew that Dudley not only needed but _wanted_ to be beaten hard. When he saw his Master Teacher, even when they were with the rest of the gang (which were, actually, the only times they saw each other these days), his face turned pink with the memory of how _desperate_ he had felt by the end of their session. He'd been desperate to be hit more and hard, but also desperate to be comforted, and desperate to be touched, to have the ache of his swollen cock relieved.

He found himself thinking of Piers and his discipline when he was wanking. He even thought of the ladder of bruises he'd found on his bottom when he'd checked the night of his discipline. He remembered how he got them; he pressed on them as he fisted his cock at night or in the shower.

He'd always thought he liked girls. And he _did_. When he thought about it, there was no way he was _attracted_ to Piers. Piers was skinny, and somewhat greasy, and foul-tempered, and not at all what he thought he should like. There was nothing about him that was soft. He looked like a rat, all pointy and squinty, lips always clutched together disdainfully, and his voice was kind of nasal, besides.

But seeing him, hearing him, knowing that he _knew_... all of these triggered a reaction in Dudley. Piers held some power over him, and it turned off Dudley's ability to think straight. He craved his Teacher's punishments, and in the deepest parts of his libido hoped for his Teacher's sexual favour.

That wasn't bloody likely this week, though. On Saturday at the play park, hanging quietly in the back while the other boys taunted a ten-year-old, Dudley had started to stress about the way he was... _abetting_ the mistreatment of a child. Never mind that a month ago he would have gladly taken part in such mistreatment; now that he was living on the straight-and-narrow, it seemed important to either stop the other boys or take care of the snotty-nosed kid.

So he had backed off even more, and when the gang lost interest and the kid started to run away, Dudley tore after him to, well, ‘treat children with kindness.’ Stupid rules. Especially since the brat had seen him and run even faster. Dudley vaguely remembered giving the kid a bloody nose the summer before. But the running made it harder to be kind to the snot-nose.

And of course, when he returned to the play park, the gang, but especially Piers, had needled him and mocked him until he snapped.

So no, Dudley was not expecting today's session to be much fun. But screwing up his courage, he climbed the steps to Number Eleven, Pansy Lane, and rang the doorbell.

This time, Piers answered.

* * *

He gazed briefly at his student before saying, "Come," and turned his back on Dudley as he headed toward the stairs. Piers was in no mood today, despite his plan for Dudley's punishment; he was still peeved about the specific insult the other boy had hurled at him two days prior.

Piers rolled his eyes, hearing Dudley drag his feet as he climbed the stairs. Sure, it was better than stomping, but it still wasn't _dignified_ , and Piers was still looking for more reasons to correct his behaviour. He did not look back as he turned and walked into his room, swinging the door open wide enough that Dudley could catch it before it shut.

"In the centre of the carpet, and hand over the stick and your book," Piers ordered.

"Yes, sir," Dudley said as he moved to the middle of the room and held out the requested items.

"Did I ask you a question? You will not speak today unless asked a direct question, understand?"

"I understand, sir," said Dudley, visibly trembling, his eyes starting to shine.

"You better. You've got yourself into big trouble, young man. But before we address that, I need to read what else your delinquent arse has got up to in the past week."

Dudley remained silent.

"Let's see. Three instances of forgetting to put the serviette on your lap at mealtime. Six instances of 'not treating children with kindness.' Explain."

"The gang," Dudley muttered. "When the gang was picking on a kid, I never protected or comforted him. If I were being kind, I would have done something."

Piers glanced over his shoulder, surprised at how seriously Dudley was taking the rules. "Indeed, you would have. But in a way that did not disrespect your superiors." Dudley examined his trainers. "Have you done better since?" Piers asked.

"Yes, sir. I have tried to be actually kind to children and women."

"Good. Now, what's this about lying to your mother?"

"She asked me if I had eaten the pudding in the refrigerator, and I said no."

"Did you blame somebody else?"

"No, but if it wasn't me, it would have to be my dad. But she wouldn't ask him."

"So you lied to your mother, and caused blame for _stealing pudding_ to fall on your father."

Dudley grimaced.

"Answer me."

"Yes, sir. I stole, lied, and blamed my dad," Dudley confessed.

"You do realise you'll be getting two strokes each for those; disrespecting your parents, lying, and -- what does the Bible call it? -- bearing false witness against your father are very serious offences"

Dudley, not having been asked a question, looked at the floor again.

"Look at me," Piers said calmly. Dudley looked up. "Now for the questions. Did you manage to acquire and read _An Etiquette Manual for Men_?”

"Yes, sir."

"Do you understand it?"

"I think so, sir."

"Be sure to come to me for clarification if you need it. Have you been helpful to your parents and other adults?"

"Yes, sir. I have been setting and clearing the table for Mum, and pushing the lawnmower for Dad. I also offered to feed Mrs. Figg's cats when she needed to go visit a sick relative last week."

"How long was she gone?"

"Er. Just the afternoon and evening; she found me the next day and said that it was all sorted and she'd come home early."

"Good enough. Have you consistently groomed yourself as befits a young gentleman of society?" Piers asked, glaring at Dudley's trainers.

"N-no, sir. I suppose not. I have been wearing my trainers, as well as jerseys sometimes."

"How many times for each?"

Piers could see Dudley counting in his head. "Four days in jerseys, sir, and five days in trainers."

"So you have spent more time dressed inappropriately than dressed well."

Dudley cast his eyes downward again.

"Well, those total twenty-four. Plus, I caught you dragging your feet rather than walking proudly as you entered my home. Not to mention how you cheeked me in front of others, using vulgarities that have likely never been heard in this town before."

"But Teacher--"

"Are you talking back?"

"No, sir. I was trying to explain, sir. You needled me, and I just... I just couldn't take it any more. I exploded. I'm sorry, sir."

Piers paused thoughtfully. "You know, you just broke two rules while confessing to breaking another. Do you remember what you said when you became frustrated?"

"Yes, sir."

"Repeat it for me. Now."

"I called you a motherfucking-son-of-a-cockweasel, sir," Dudley croaked.

"And what are you _supposed_ to do when you become that frustrated?"

"I am supposed to excuse myself and leave the group so I can calm down, then apologise upon returning."

"So you know the rules, you just failed to follow them."

Dudley nodded, his cheeks flushed with his failure and eyes watering with what Piers hoped was a mixture of fear and self-disappointment.

"So here it is. The demerits you had accumulated before we started talking about this incident were twenty-five. I am adding one each for trying to get out of your punishment by explanation, and not leaving a situation that was pissing you off. I am adding two for your use of foul language directed at another person, as creative as it was. That's twenty-nine demerits. Granted, that is much less than what you earned in your first few days, which means you're getting better. But your mistakes -- your wilful errors -- have been colossal. I had planned on giving you half as many strokes of the Stick as you had demerits, but I don't think fourteen -- _even fewer than last time_ \-- or even _fifteen_ is enough for a delinquent like you. So I will beat your bottom twenty times -- three-quarters of what you deserve. Do you have anything to say to that?"

"Sir, what about the consequence for cheeking you?" Dudley asked, looking for all the world like he would cry.

" _That_ , Dursley, we will deal with after I tend to your arse. But while I beat you, I want you to think about what the consequence was the _last_ time someone cheeked me," Piers said, sneering.  
"Now. Trousers and pants down, and get on the floor."

* * *

 _Twenty stripes, such as they are,_ thought Dudley, thinking of the bumpy bruises from the previous week.. _I guess I'll have to count again –"_

 _Smack_! "One, sir," Dudley gasped, taken by surprise from his thoughts. He heard the _whoosh_ again. "Two! Sir."

At the third stroke, Dudley was already getting hard, and tried to think about what the rest of his punishment might be. But -- _whack!_ "Four, sir!" -- he kept getting distracted by the sound of his Smeltings Stick cutting through the air, and the penetrating thuds on his bottom. He had to focus on counting. He didn't know what would happen if he missed a count, but he was sure it wouldn't be good.

 _Whack!_ "N-Nine," Dudley moaned, feeling his cock throb. How could he be finding this, this _abuse_ to be so sexy?

The tenth was particularly hard, and Dudley felt his cock swing forward, smacking him in the belly. "Oh, _ten_ , sir," he said. At this point, he knew he had no chance of concealing his arousal from his Teacher.

"We're going to take a little break, Big D," said Piers, mockingly. "Give your sweet arse a chance to cool off a bit before I do the second half."

"Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"How are you feeling? No lying, remember?"

"S-sir, I --" But Dudley couldn't find words. He felt the blood throbbing in his arse and his cock, but words were beyond him. "I don't know, sir," he finally managed.

"You don't _know_?"

"I, I can't think, sir. I'm sorry." Dudley was breathing in shudders, unsure if it was due to the pain, or being cold, or just the adrenaline of the situation.

"Okay, we'll start simple. How does your face feel?"

"My face? Er," Dudley paused to think of _what_ his face was feeling, "it feels hot, sir. And my eyes sting, a-and it aches on my temples and under my eyes." Dudley took a shuddering breath. "And my mouth is dry, and I haven't been breathing good."

"Okay, Dudley. Take a few deep breaths." Still on all fours, Dudley felt Piers' eyes on him. He breathed in, counting _One, two, three,_ and then out _four, five, six_. Knowing that his breathing was evening out but still needed help, he repeated the pattern twice more.

And realised what the consequence for cheeking Piers would be.

"Now, Big D. Tell me how your bottom is feeling."

Dudley thought. "It's sore, sir, and warm. A little tingly, but not too much."

Piers grunted his approval. "And your cock? How is that?"

"Sir?" Dudley said, shocked to be asked the question, not sure whether he wanted to answer, to humiliate himself by confessing his reaction to the beating.

"Your cock. I can tell that it's filled. Tell me how it feels." Piers walked around to stand in front of him, and pulled his chin up so that Dud was forced to look into his glinting eyes.

Dudley gulped. "It -- it's very full, sir. For a bit, it was throbbing hard in time to the throbbing of my arse, but both are throbbing a lot less now. It's not as excited as it was a minute ago, but it, er, hit my belly when you hit me. I can feel the bit of wetness from the tip on my belly. My cock feels hot, and heavy." His chin was still in Piers' hands, so he was forced to say all this while looking at his Teacher, whose eyes darkened, and lids started to fall. Since he had to look past Piers' cock to see his face, Dudley couldn't help but notice the bulge in his friend's denims. _Dear God, I'm turning him on!_

"Good answer," said Piers in a low voice. "I suppose you want to touch it?"

"Sir!" said Dudley, surprised. "Teacher, I would very much like to touch it. It would feel so good..." When Piers paused, Dudley’s stomach sank. He thought back to an American movie his Mum had shown him when he was little. In the movie, the rabbit had said that he couldn't possibly go into the briar patch, so the fox made him go. It had turned out that the rabbit was tricking the fox, as he'd grown up in a briar patch. _That was a trap, wasn't it? I should have said ‘Oh no, Br'er Fox, don't make me toss one off! It's so dissatisfying!’_ Dudley had made the mistake of admitting exactly what he wanted, and giving Piers the opportunity to mock him - or worse.

Dudley was right. "You would like to wank, you dirty rule-breaker. Do you think you _deserve_ to wank? Do you _deserve_ to come today?"

"No, sir, but _please_." Dud heard a sharp intake of breath at his plea.

"Well, well. We'll have to see how you take the rest of your punishment, won't we? Because so far, you don't deserve to come _at all_." Piers walked around Dudley again, and Dudley heard the drag of his Smeltings Stick along the carpet as his Teacher picked it up. And then the dreaded _whoosh_.

 _Smack!_ "Eleven, sir!"

The rest of his beating went by in a blur, with Dudley aware only of the increasing throbs on his arse and between his legs, but trying to remember. There was something; something he would have to do when the strikes were done, something that was supposed to make him -- _Smack!_ "Sixteen, sir!" he cried in desperation, having lost his train of thought again.

* * *

Piers had been growing harder and harder as his punishment of Dudley went on. He'd known he liked hitting people, but had never had it fuse with power in quite this way before -- never had someone just _take_ it, willingly. It was hotter than he had ever imagined. And the thought of breaking Big D so bad that he would cry _and_ be willing to suck his Teacher off, well, that kept Piers' cock straining against his briefs and denims.

Because Dudley _would_ suck him. And he'd had this whole punishment to think about it. _And_ , Piers noticed, the prospect hadn't seem to diminish the boy's excitement _at all_.

 _Well, if he remembers,_ conceded Piers, acknowledging that the couple of books he'd looked at in the porno shop had mentioned that for a "bottom," which is what the books said Dudley was acting as, it was often impossible to do anything but stay in the very moment. Which was one of the reasons for the "break." To give Dudley time to reflect, and also to make sure that he was safe -- someone that big could easily lose his breath or strain his heart, Piers thought. _This train is too sweet to crash. I bet Dud never thought these activities would stimulate anything but his good behaviour. But I can tell that he finds it exciting. Hell, he'd even_ said _that he wanted to wank._

Piers drew back his arm, intending for these last three to be the hardest: _Smack!_

"Eigh-" Dudley sobbed, "Eighteen, sir!"

"Are you _crying_ , boy?"

His student sniffed. "Y-yes, sir, I-I'm sorry, sir."

"I shouldn't have expected you to take it well; you're great at boxing and punching, but always turned into a wibbling baby when you got hit yourself."

Dudley sniffed louder. Piers drew back again, the last two _whoosh-smack!_ rhythms getting him even closer to the edge. "And, I think, one for good luck," he said before giving Dudley the hardest strike of all. He watched as a wide, deep, bumpy line turned translucent white in contrast to the pink-arse-with-red-lines around it.

"TWENTY-ONE!" screamed Dudley.

"Lovely," Piers said. "Now get on your knees and face me."

As Dudley turned around, Piers took in the sight of the solid young man: face red, nose puffy, tear-tracks running down his cheeks. The boy wasn't quite gasping for breath, but his inhalations were sharp. A bit of his stomach glistened, and his cock stood proudly.

Piers couldn't wait.

* * *

Piers was looking at him with... was it awe? Mixed with hunger. Dudley was still a little light-headed from the beating, was still shuddering with each breath. While one extra smack wasn't a lot after holding through twenty, that last one was just the _limit_. He couldn't take any more. He was almost outside of himself, he felt emptied of his personality, of every mean thought. Piers was his lifeline, his connection to reality. Or was he? Dudley couldn't quite tell what reality was supposed to be, but he knew that Piers and the Smeltings Stick were the only realities that mattered any more

The knowledge that he was going to have to pleasure Piers was comforting, now. He could become useful, not the waste of space he suspected himself of being.

"Dudley," Piers said softly. "Look at me."

Dudley looked.

" _Do_ you remember what the consequence was when Mulrooney cheeked me?"

"Y-yes, sir. I remember."

"Tell me what it is that those who cheek this Teacher have to do to make it up."

"Boys who cheek you have to suck your cock, Teacher."

"Correct," Piers confirmed. "I must say, I've been looking forward to this since Saturday. Tell me, Dudley, have _you_ been looking forward to it?"

"O-only for the last ten strokes, sir," Dudley confessed.

"Mm? And why is that?"

"Because I hadn't thought you would punish me that way until you said so right before beating me, and then I couldn't concentrate on remembering until you gave me a break, sir."

"And why did you start looking forward to it, Dudley?"

"Because...because I want to do something good for you after being so bad," Dudley whispered.

"Oh, Big D. That _is_ the right answer, you know." Piers' voice was suspiciously soft.

"Thank you, Teacher."

"You're welcome. Now for this, I want you to remain kneeling. Hands behind your back for the moment."

Dudley put his hands behind his back, feeling the bottom of his jersey skimming the almost-raw stripes.

Piers unbuckled his own belt, unbuttoned the front of his denims, and slowly pulled down the zip before (just as slowly) pushing his denims and too-tight briefs down. He snorted as he pulled at the front of his briefs in order to get them around his cock.

"Do you like what you see, Dudley?"

"I.. I don't know, sir. But I want to do something that's good for you. Please, sir. Let me take care of your cock," Dudley said, not sure whether he was saying something according to some weird script that was running their interaction, or whether he really wanted to blow Piers. But Piers smiled slowly, which made Dudley think he'd got the right answer.

Sitting on his desk chair, Piers said, "Kneel right in front of me," so Dudley moved the half-metre or so closer. "Good boy. Now open your mouth."

Dudley opened his mouth. His Teacher took hold of his own cock and used it to smear his own pre-come onto Dudley's cheeks. Dudley inhaled through his nose, taking in the full aroma of Piers' cock for the first time.

And then the tip of that cock entered his mouth.

"Close your mouth around the head, Dudley, and _suck_."

Dudley did so, placing his lips just past the ridge on the crown of Piers' cock, sucking gently, then harder.

"Good," gasped Piers. He seemed to take a second or two to regain control of his speech. "Now use your tongue to swirl around the head."

Dudley did so, sticking his tongue into Piers' slit to taste the slightly bitter, but _round_ -tasting liquid behind it. _But bitter should taste sharp, shouldn't it?_ he thought absently as he returned to circling the head with his tongue.

"Dudley, you can use your hands to hold my cock in place, or to play with my bollocks. Suck and lick me, and be _creative_. Just make me feel good," Piers said, and Dudley felt his Teacher's hands slide into his hair.

* * *

It was like every wet dream come true for Piers.

He had total control of the only bloke his age who could give him a run for his money, the boy his Mum referred to as his "best mate," and this mate's lips and tongue were wrapped around his cock. Piers had gotten enormously worked up during Dudley's beating, and felt himself throbbing and twitching in the other boy's mouth. Dudley was doing his best to suck most of the time, it seemed.

But once in awhile, he would do something inspired, like press a finger behind Piers' sack and massage it, or suck _while_ twirling his tongue around the head. Sometimes, Dudley even combined one of those with remembering to stroke the base of Piers' cock, which he did in a slow, tight, screw-like motion.

 _Talent!_ thought Piers. _Who knew he would have such_ talent _?_

And then, holding his student's (he liked thinking of Dudley as his student) head in place by the hair, he thrust a little more into his mouth, and Dudley's teeth closed on his shaft.

" _Ouch_ , you little fucker!" he screamed, pulling Dudley off his cock by the hair. "You fucking _bit_ me!"

Dudley looked up at him, the tears starting to run down his face again. "I'm so sorry, Teacher. Really. I didn't mean to hurt you. I will try to be more careful, and less easy to surprise--"

"You're damn right, you will," Piers snapped. "But before you finish that job, you've earned yourself five more strikes of the Stick!"

Dudley only cried harder.

* * *

He couldn't believe that he'd messed up like that. Piers had every right to be furious. Not only was Dudley a failure as a gentleman, but he was a failure as a _cocksucker_. He was as low as a bloke could get. But still, more strokes? How was he going to survive more strokes from his Smeltings Stick? That fucker was _big_ , and _hard_ , and... his cock took an interest again. _I really am sick,_ he thought.

He got back on his hands and knees without being asked, and waited for the blows to commence.

 _Whoosh-Smack!_ Which they did. "One!" Dudley cried.

He took the other four smacks with stoicism in his heart, though he continued to sob. He knew he was bad, he knew he was a sorry excuse for a proper young man, and that he was truly inadequate in all respects. His heart was calm because he knew he deserved this punishment, even more than he had deserved the others. As he felt and counted the fifth stroke, he sobbed one more time, before letting his arms collapse in front of him, and lying with his arse in the air and his head on his forearms.

And yet, as guilty and humbled as he was, his cock was hard from this absolution.

* * *

Piers regarded the boy folded in front of him, sobbing quietly, for a minute.

 _This is really intense for him,_ Piers realised. _As intense for him as it is for me. Maybe more intense. Did I fuck up by punishing him just then? I know that I had to work really hard not to bite Quinn the first time I sucked him off,_ he thought, remembering the first boy he had ‘experimented’ with. Who had since disavowed his homosexuality, crushing Piers. He'd been relieved when his first "lover" had finally graduated Smeltings...

The throbbing in his cock, the extra pain of having the blood of his erection throb against where Dudley had bit, brought Piers back to the moment. It made him remember why he had deemed this beating necessary.

He heard Dudley whimpering, "I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry," over and over, and had a second realisation. He needed to communicate to Dudley that everything would be alright. The books had said that if a "bottom" had an emotionally painful experience with a "top," he wouldn't come back. And that would _not_ do.

Piers knelt behind where Dudley was presenting his well-marked arse. He found himself desperately wanting to take that arse, either with his cock or with the Smeltings Stick (the idea of the knobbly rod getting sucked in and pushed out by Dudley's arsehole had become one of his favourite wank fantasies), but knowing that he needed to get Dudley back on his side, back into a space where he could continue to submit to Piers' orders and attentions.

"Dudley," he said, careful to keep his voice steady and calm. Dudley stopped muttering, but continued to sob into his arms, his back shaking and arse jiggling. Piers reached out, and stroked Dud's bottom lightly, up and down, up and down. When the distraught boy seemed to be largely calm, Piers tried again. "Dudley," he repeated, "can you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Dudley said, speaking into his arms.

"You were good to submit to your beating without complaint. Do you have anything to say to me now?"

"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry, sir," he said, without raising his head.

"Dudley, I want you to kneel before me and repeat that so I can actually hear it."

Dudley raised himself up and turned around. He looked at Piers through wet eyes, and said. "Thank you, sir. I am very sorry that I bit you. It must have hurt so much, and I feel horrid that I hurt you that way, because I wanted you to feel good. I'm sorry that I failed. I don't deserve to pleasure you."

"Dudley, I accept your apology. I know you did it by accident. I forgive you."

Dudley seemed startled. "You do?"

"Yes, I do."

Dudley paused for a long moment, then asked, "Sir, may I try again? I will be extra-careful, and do better this time."

* * *

Dudley felt himself flushing again as Piers regarded him, considering his request. He could hardly believe himself. Since when had he become a poofter, wanting to suck cock? Did he _really_ want to suck cock, or did he just want to succeed instead of fail?

He actually hadn't minded doing it. He liked being able to make Piers react; it made him feel powerful. And until he'd bitten him, Piers had seemed to be enjoying his blow job.

"All right, Dud, you may try again. This time, though, try to cover your teeth with your lips. That way, you won't accidentally bite me again. But the rest of your effort was well-done, if a bit messy. Like all skills, though, giving a great blow job just takes practice."

" _Thank_ you, sir," Dudley breathed, amazed that he was being given another chance, and even _help_ learning how to pleasure his Teacher. He smiled tearfully at Piers, then let his eyes travel down Piers' face, chest, and belly to the cock sticking up through a thatch of black curls. The cock had regained most of the hardness it had lost after Dudley had bitten it, but he could see the purple imprints from his teeth, and felt guilty again. He knew that he needed to surpass Piers' wildest expectations to make it up to him.

Dudley decided to start the way Piers had directed him the first time, leaning forward with his hands behind his back to suck at Piers' cock-head. He then took his time, pulling off with what was almost a little kiss before pointing his tongue and sticking it into the slit. He moved his tongue back and forth a tiny bit as he closed his lips around the corona, and then _sucked_.

Piers gasped, and grabbed Dudley's hair to hold on.

 _Good,_ Dudley thought. _I'm doing it right, then._

As he took his next breath through his mouth and licked his lips again, he brought his right hand out to hold Piers' cock steady, and his left hand to stroke lightly at his balls.

Slowly, slowly, he started to draw Piers' cock into his mouth. Piers' hands gripped tighter, and started to pull Dudley's hair towards his crotch, but Dudley had his teeth behind his lips this time as his tongue snapped down from its place on his Teacher's cock-head, and did not bite. Nor did he submit to his friend's (were they friends, even now?) cues to suck his penis down quickly. Dudley drew his tongue along the back of Piers' cock, feeling the pulsing vein, until the tongue met with his bottom lip.

He sucked hard again, and Piers thrust.

Dudley's hand along the base of Piers' cock meant that Piers didn't have room to thrust very _far_ , but Dud got the picture, and smiled around Piers' erection. He drew back, fluttering the tip of his tongue against the slit again, then sucked as much cock as he could into his mouth. It hit the back of his throat and he gagged, spitting it out.

" _Take it_ ," Piers growled. "Take it _all_."

Dudley nodded eagerly, wanting to do as his Teacher desired, thinking about how he would suppress his urges to vomit after a fight: a deep, deep breath that tightened his diaphragm and opened his throat at an angle. He breathed deeply through his mouth, then through his nose, and began working the purpled cock in front of him down his mouth and into his throat with a suck-then-spit strategy, keeping his ears attuned to Piers' reactions.

Which seemed positive _indeed_.

Piers' hips canted as he tried to fuck Dudley's throat harder, and Dudley groaned around the cock attempting to bury itself in his digestive tract. He pulled a bit at Piers' bollocks, and loosened his mouth a little as he felt Piers drawing back. His right hand left Piers' cock to grab onto his hip and hold on for the ride. The left hand soon followed.

Dudley's throat _hurt_ from being thrust against repeatedly, but he relished the idea that he was making up for his earlier mistake by taking it from his Teacher. Piers started to tremble, and pistoned in-and-out, trying to get deeper with each thrust. He groaned mightily and stiffened; as the first spurt of semen splashed on Dudley's tongue, Piers pulled the rest of the way out and let the spunk fall on Dud's face.

Dudley, for his part, soon rested his head against the other boy's skinny, hairy leg as he tried to catch his breath. Knowing he was out of order, he shrank back when Piers tapped his foot.

He sat his sore arse on his heels, and looked up at his Teacher, who was also breathing heavily and gazing at him with shock written across his features.

"Dudley," Piers said, "you are a very, _very_ good little cocksucker. So good that I think you do get to come after all."

Dudley felt his bits tingle in anticipation.

* * *

 **Thursday, 26 August, 1995**

"Duddlebuns, what are you doing, holed up in your room on a sunny day like this?" Petunia Dursley asked through the door of her son's room.

"Come in, please, Mum," Dudley replied.

Mrs Dursley entered, her eyes widening as she took in the scene: Dudley sitting at his desk with a schoolbook open, notebook and Biro showing that he had been writing. But that was not all. Dudley had to restrain himself from smirking as he watched his mother scan the room.

His bed was made, his dirty clothes in his hamper, his toys and games put away. Dudley's _shoes_ were even lined up under his _bed_.

"Dudley...?" Mrs Dursley asked weakly. "What have you been doing?"

Dudley smiled. "I decided it was time to grow up a bit. Treat my things as the gifts they are from you and Dad, try to help more around the house, do my summer homework well, for once. I want to be someone who deserves to have you be proud of him."

"But Duddy, we've always _been_ proud of you."

"I know, Mum, but I haven't been an angel. So I am trying to do better. Piers has been helping me."

"You..." Mrs Dursley took a sharp breath before rushing at her son, arms open wide. "Oh, _Dudley_!"

* * *

 **Friday, 27 August, 1995**

 _The trouble is,_ Dudley thought glumly as he raked the early leaf-fall from the front walk, _that I have actually managed to make acting like a decent bloke normal in the mere two weeks I've been following Piers' instructions._

His plan seemed to have worked, but he was discontent. _Damn. I can't believe I've let my correction sessions with Piers get under my skin like this._ Because he had. He'd barely scribbled _anything_ in his notebook over the last four days, having had the concept of courtesy drilled into his head by the combination of writing, hearing, and being beaten for his transgressions.

As he put away the rake and carried the sack of leaves to the side of Number Four, Privet Drive, he considered his situation: He could recite Piers' rules for him, even if not in order. He was following them out of habit. Did all this mean he was already the perfect gentleman?

He stuck a glass under the tap in the kitchen sink and drew himself a glassful. _But Perfect Gentlemen don't get beaten. And they certainly don't suck cock, or want to get beaten, or fantasise about other men._ He walked up the stairs to his room and opened the door, careful not to spill his water. _Those things aren't against Piers' rules, though._

As he placed his glass on the desk so he could change into something a bit less dirty, he saw his copy of _An Etiquette Manual for Men_ lying on the other side of the desk, underneath his Composition textbook.

And Dudley had the solution.

* * *

 **Monday, 30 August, 1995**

Dudley was in his customary position in the centre of the rug as Piers read his log entries.

"Dudley? What's going on here? What are all these noted infractions? I certainly did not expect you to wear a tie to every meal."

"Sir, the _Etiquette Manual_ was written in 1923. I was re-reading it the other day, and realised that I had skipped the rules I'd thought were too old-fashioned. So I added them to the list of rules I have to follow."

Piers raised an eyebrow. _Interesting._ "Really," he drawled. "I don't suppose you know how many demerits you've earned, do you?"

Blushing and hanging his head slightly, Dudley answered. "Sixty-two."

"And how many strikes are you expecting for that?"

"Er... However many you think is appropriate, sir."

"Hmm. I think that when you added offences to your correction list, you must have expected that you would earn a smack for each of them. So that is what you will get. Trousers and pants off, and lie across my lap, here."

"S-sir?"

"Oh, did I not mention? I'll be applying the first half of your punishment by hand." In his mind, Piers was nearly dancing in celebration. Warm, _naked_ male flesh would be pressed against him! He fished for a reason to remove his own trousers and pants, but could not come up with a reason that would seem plausible, even in this charade.

 _Because Dudley wanted this so much, he went out of his way to make it possible,_ he thought, remembering how Dud's blush the week before had started with a pinkening of the chest, which travelled, spreading and darkening, up through his neck and face until it reached his deepest red ear-tops. _I shall need to make him wank for me again._

Both boys were already growing hard as Dudley settled on Piers' lap and Piers drew his hand back for the first spank.

* * *

Getting spanked with Piers' hand was _nothing_ like getting whacked with the Smeltings Stick. Not only was Dudley aware that his every twitch and jerk were felt by his Teacher, but he could feel the reaction punishing Dudley caused.

Piers had started out a little hard, but by the tenth smack his cock was bulging through his trousers and pressing into the lower part of Dudley's gut.

Not to mention that after Dudley hadn't been able to keep his count up to the speed of the smacks, Piers had said that he did not have to count at all, and started hitting him _faster_. There was no time to recover between them, and Dudley felt himself starting to float already.

He was also starting to rock back and forth, trying to get some more friction and pressure on his own cock, even though the rough grain of Piers' trousers was not a pleasant rubbing surface.

Piers noticed, lifted his hand and leaned down. "Don't _move_ ," he growled, and did not resume the spanking until Dudley had stilled.

And then it was over, and Piers made him get off his lap and get back down on all fours. Dud felt as though his face, his bottom, his whole body were on fire. He struggled to control his breathing, aware that Piers was watching and waiting for him to calm down before continuing with the punishment.

* * *

Feeling Dudley squirm and try to rub himself off on his lap had nearly caused Piers to lose his self-control and start to thrust back. He remembered, however, that this was supposed to be for ‘punishment,’ rather than for the gratification of either of them, and made Dudley stop.

When Dudley got on his hands and knees, the delinquent boy wasn't the only one who needed to calm himself by breathing. Piers, too, was nearly overcome with lust. And yet, he knew that he was only half-done.

"Dudley. Are you ready yet?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Dudley was nearly _moaning_ , and it was all Piers could do not to just walk around and shove his hard cock into the other boy's mouth.

But he didn't. He was still in charge of himself as well as of Dudley. "Good. Start counting again. You've had thirty-one spankings so far." And he let loose with the first smack.

"Thirty-two-sir!" Dudley cried in a staccato rhythm that reminded Piers of the films he'd seen of military training in the States.

The cries gradually acquired a tone of pleading, and then of sobbing, with gasps between each word. After he had struck Dudley with the Smeltings Stick fifteen times, Piers paused, shaking out his arm.

"All right there, Dud?" he asked.

"Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Dudley shuddered. Piers eyed him carefully and nodded. The bruises on Dud's arse were already darker than they had been in past weeks due to the spanking he'd received first, but the satisfaction of seeing a white, knobbly line fade into a deep red one was not withheld from him. This was one of the loveliest sights Piers had ever seen. It was like art, like a painting he had made on Dudley's white bottom, and Piers was proud of it. Likewise, he was proud of his ‘student's’ performance; he had certainly shown great stamina thus far, even as he sobbed or wept.

"Good, then." And Piers let him have the last sixteen stripes of the summer.

* * *

As he counted the last few smacks to his arse ("Fifty-eight, sir!" _Whoosh-smack!_ "Fifty-nine, sir!") Dudley's emotions started to get the better of him, and he could barely choke out the count. He was harder than he'd ever been, he thought, and he wanted to please Piers, and he knew it was coming to an end, this beating and this relationship of student and Teacher.

The Stick seemed to whistle through the air as it came in for the last strike.

"SIXTY-TWO!" Dudley screamed. "Thank you, sir!"

And Dudley collapsed onto his arms as he had the previous week, sobbing and shaking. He heard Piers calling his name as if from a distance, but he could barely breathe, let alone speak. He was ashamed of his tears, yes, but even more ashamed of his desire. He wanted Piers to keep control of him, to hurt him when he was bad, to allow him rewards when he was good. He didn't want their arrangement to end just because of _school_ ; in fact, he found himself wanting more out of it than he had imagined himself capable of wanting.

He was so confused...though he was pretty clear by now that he _did_ have a sexual interest in his friend.

Dudley became aware that Piers was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair. He leant into the touch. "Thank you, sir," he whispered.

"You're welcome, Dudley. You took that very well. I'll miss having your arse to mark."

"You will, sir?"

"Oh, yes."

* * *

Dudley's voice was almost unintelligibly quiet. "I'll miss it, too, sir."

 _This doesn't have to end for good,_ Piers realised. He had fantasised about how they might continue their little game, but not dared to think it possible. But now....

"Would you like to continue this, even while you are at Smeltings, Dudley?"

Dudley looked up, a somewhat shocked expression on his face. "Sir?"

"I said, would you like to continue this -- this arrangement -- while you are at school this term?" Piers repeated.

Dudley closed his eyes, inhaling. "Yes, sir, I would like that a lot. But how--"

Piers cut him off. "I'll explain. But I believe that we _both_ deserve a reward right now. Sit on your heels, facing me," he said, and then mirrored the action he'd instructed Dudley to take.

Piers then undid the zip in his trousers, and pulled his cock above the waistband of his pants. He saw Dudley's eyes widen.

"We are going to wank ourselves while I tell you how it will be during the term." And just as slowly as he wanked, Piers began to outline the plan.

He watched Dudley follow his pacing. This was going to be good.

* * *

The sun was setting as Dudley left Number Eleven, Pansy Lane. He felt sated, and giddy, and terrified. He had admitted to Piers that he wanted what Piers had been doing to him, for him, and had agreed to continue it.

He wondered how he would manage to find a new swot to help him at Smeltings this year.

He wondered how he would resist blushing when he saw Piers -- and Malcolm and Gordon -- the next day for their last afternoon together before term.

But most of all, he wondered what sort of responses and instructions he would receive from Piers after he had sent his Notebook List by post every week, and how it would go for them when the Christmas hols rolled around.

His mind flew to the bruises on his bottom, and he hoped that whatever Piers' corrections were, they would prove as... _effective_ as the Smeltings Stick.

  
 **  
 _~Fin~_  
**  



End file.
